


The Lucky One

by LadyDeme



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Characters in Even More Awkward Teenage Form, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd Needs a Hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, Minimal Comfort At Best, POV Second Person, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Strangulation, The General Unfairness of Life, Tragedy of Duscur, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-25 16:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20727194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDeme/pseuds/LadyDeme
Summary: Imagine what a strange position this must be: You’re Sylvain Jose Gautier, you’re fifteen years old, and all you want is to get laid. But it was just the worst day in everybody you care about's lives, the world is falling apart around you, and you're completely unharmed by all of it.





	1. Someone Else's Bad Luck

Life, you reflect as the streets of Fhirdiad roll by, isn’t fair. You’ve known this for as long as you can remember.

The world’s falling apart around you. You’re Sylvain Jose Gautier, you’re fifteen years old, and all you want is to get laid. It’s not so much to ask, really. You want to hang out with some of the few decent people in your life, and you want to add a lot more people, usually girls, who are maybe only half-decent (at best) into your life for brief but enjoyable periods of time.

When you compare that wish to everything else going on right now, it’s really pretty pathetic. Because that’s a really stupid wish, put in context; because somehow you are, as always, the lucky one. You already know this, but now more than ever, it tastes like ashes in your mouth. It sinks into the pit of your stomach as you watch building after building pass the carriage window, all draped in sable black. The windows of the shops are covered. Normally when lots of important nobles are visiting, you’d think people would be on the streets to curiously peer towards your coach, maybe a cute girl you could wink at and she’d smile at the fancy noble in his fancy carriage — and there will be, later, because they’re like you: lucky that all they have to worry about is getting a view of the funeral procession. But right now, they’re closer to the disaster than you are — so they’re inside, waiting, leaving the streets so quiet that what movement you do see feels like someone’s trespassing. 

You reach up a hand and rub your neck, still bruised sickly yellow and faded maroon under your fur-lined collar. Ok, if you could complain for a minute, you do sort of have a way in which you are not very lucky: you got caught up in someone else’s bad luck. And you can’t help but think of that, and feel the punch in the gut that’s your own fortune again.

Your old man had called everyone into his study when the letter, the one that ultimately brought you here in the best black clothes money could buy, had arrived. He was a serious guy, your father. But you’d never seen him quite so serious. With the whole family assembled, too. Your mother gave you a faint and insincere smile when you came in, with her eyes flinty and distant. Just the three of you would have been suffocating enough. But you and Miklan were in the same room together, which was a state you really tried to avoid. You tried to avoid it  _ a lot _ since the whole well incident. Sometimes, you couldn’t help it. Those times, this time, tended to not go great for you.

“There’s been... “ Your father paused like he didn’t know how to say it. You added it to the number of things horribly wrong here, because he always knew what to say to get what he wanted. He always wanted something, even when you didn’t know what. “An incident. The king’s party was ambushed on their visit to Duscur. Most of them are dead.” 

He sounded wooden as he delivered the final verdict.

“The king is dead.” 

And everyone in the room experienced their first and last moment of family unity. You all shared a moment of stunned horror where no one could say a word. 

“What about Dimitri?” Maybe you should have held back, but your head just sort of jumped. Sure, the king was the king, and he was a great guy and all. But Dimitri was _ your friend _ , that sweet kid who’d encouraged you to be free when you hadn’t thought it was possible — and somehow put up with the consequences. And if he was dead when the king was dead, what was going to happen to Faerghus? 

“Prince Dimitri was injured in the attack, but survived. At the cost of all his knights...He alone survived.”

You were so relieved you dropped into a chair. It took you a half-second to even hear the rest of what your dad had said. It wasn’t like Dimitri was your only friend there — but this time, you don’t ask about Glenn. You don’t have to, even if you wanted to imagine there’d be another answer. That if you asked, you’d get something else back from that moment of fear.

“Poor Duke Fraldarius,” your mother said. “To lose his precious heir so easily…And he was so young.”

“Young? Glenn was barely older than Sylvain. Of course, maybe if he wasn’t such an idiot, he’d have joined them.” Miklan glared at you, and, hey, it burned off the slow horror of realizing that that brave, dashing friend wasn’t immortal, you weren’t immortal, no one was. You were just fed up. So that was the upside.“Shame you weren’t, you fool.”

“Miklan!” your mother snapped. Her hands were shaking. Was that her maternal heart, stirred by the loss of one of House Fraldarius’ two crest-bearing sons, and thinking of what might have been the loss of her one? (Your mother envied Duchess Fraldarius something  _ crazy _ when she was alive, you remember hearing her say one quiet night.She’d never stopped envying her, and sometimes your mother thought Felix was born just to spite her. Maybe her life wasn’t fair, either, but she’s the one who decided to live like what sort of blood her kids had mattered so much.) You couldn’t tell if you hoped so or not. 

“Oh, shut up, Miklan. Is this really the time for this?” you shot back. It’s not like Miklan was different — not in being a good-for-nothing, no, he’s more of an asshole — he could have been there, too, if fate had been a little different. But you weren’t going to say that, because it was really just the hour of hating sylvain, the only time that existed for him. 

“I’m only speaking the truth. He’s worthless, undeserving of even a basic knighthood — but he gets to saunter around without a care in the world, heir to the family. Good knights died, and this waste of space lives to drag House Gautier with him!” He’s right, of course. Miklan’s tried hard. Studied hard. He was pretty smart, even if he was an unrelenting asshole. But he didn’t figure out how worthless it all is the way you did. So he’d hoped to live the life he wanted.

“Miklan, you will take back those words about your brother,  _ my heir _ .” Nothing but finality rang in your father’s words.

“No, no, I won’t! Why do I have to watch my tongue about this spoiled brat?!” He rose up to his feet, shoulders squared and mouth a grim, intense line.

“Wow, Miklan, tell us what your really think.”

“ _ Stop. _ ” Your father’s voice was a clap of thunder, rolling through the room. Your father had stepped out from behind his desk, and his experience showed through. He was a soldier — the Margraves of Gautier had to be. He looked more like you in the face, but there, he was using the way his body had more of Miklan’s raw, intimidating bulk. His muscles tensed like an animal on the edge of biting, visible even under his fur coat. There was an indescribable feeling to those arms of his: not a tremor, not a pulse, just the sudden and certain way your eye was drawn that broadcasted something  _ else _ in him, waiting to draw itself out of his movements if he needed it. And that shut Miklan up — it had to, and you couldn’t blame him for the hate in his eyes, seeing that something he couldn’t have bubbling so close to the surface.”Everyone. That’s enough, Miklan. Apologize.”

“...You have. My apologies,” Miklan grunted through gritted teeth, eyes staring daggers at you. You really wished the old man hadn’t done that; what happened next was going to be worse because he’d had to say it. 

“You are all dismissed from my office. I will discuss the plans concerning the funeral later.”

(The plans were ultimately that you’d go alone. Your father would watch the region in case the instability brought trouble. Your mother would send you off looking your best, because she wanted you to be shown off as a man who was becoming more independent. Miklan would continue to be too unimportant to them to go anywhere, and he’d seethe. This was not part of the plan. You were just aware of it.)

You all shuffled out, one by one. Last out the door, you had thought you’d have a second to do something like sort out how you felt. That wasn’t what was in store for you then.

A hand reached out for your shoulder and pinned you savagely to the hallway wall. Miklan still had a way of looming over you even though there wasn’t a big difference in height anymore. But he was bigger than you anyway and threw his weight into that like a man who meant it. He locked his other hand into place on your opposite shoulder, leaving no escape for you but turning your head.

“I should wipe that smug face right off your head,” he growled. “I have nothing to apologize to you for, you crest-bearing fool.”

“Oh, I get it, it’s fine. I get that that was fake,” you tell him, which sounded like a really great way to make this worse; that must be why you said it.

“You don’t understand anything! If the Goddess won’t kill you, then I’ll finish it!” And  _ that _ was when his hands stopped being on your shoulders, when the world went briefly black and blue and floorless, when the air got crushed out of your throat in the sweep of rough hands. Their callouses pressed into your windpipe. _ What in the flames. What in the infernal goddess-damned flames, Miklan _ . That was just the thought that ran through your head. “Just by existing —!” 

In retrospect, it wasn’t actually worse than the well thing. It really wasn’t. You kicked him pretty hard, just wherever your feet could find the purchase, and he let go with a high yowl. Over in a second.

So you don’t know why, gasping for breath, that was what got the waterworks going. But you didn’t want either of your parents to find out — crazy, right? You didn’t want anyone knowing. You didn’t want anything getting more messed up than it already was. You weren’t even sure how you felt — or, maybe, you aren’t sure, because you’ve rolled it over in your head, trying to find an easy name for it, so many times. But you didn’t stick around for anyone to see. You ran, you didn’t say anything, you hid your neck.

_ Just by existing, you took everything from me. _

That was what he’d wanted to say. What he has the  _ right  _ to say. You just wish he hadn’t tried to say it with his hands. You’d never thought he would — not so directly. The mountain was bad, and you’re never going to forget trying to keep a grip on the well’s side for hours. But even those weren’t that big a deal. You hadn’t expected him to take it into his own grasp, to not let something else do his dirty work. 

Where could it go from here? It feels like a rope in the family is getting drawn tighter and tighter, and it’s always been frayed. You just don’t want to be there when it snaps. You sigh and sink against the window of the carriage, feeling the cold that seeps in from the outside. A brief stop as city gave way to castle; it’s showtime, Sylvain old buddy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Post! This more or less spawned out of posing the summary as a topic to a friend of mine. Like, Sylvain's in a weird and unique position here — why not spend some time with that?


	2. Is This Doing Anything For Anyone

None of your friends come to greet you. But for the most part, you kinda knew that already. Felix and Ingrid are with their respective families, after all; they didn’t come to the capital this time of year normally (neither did you, honestly; you were down here even less). Felix isn’t coming until the next day; House Fraldarius had its own worries, but he’d be there. But you’d ended up going just a bit out of your way to visit House Galatea. You’ve been too worried not to. Glenn had been Ingrid’s fiance, and while she probably couldn’t say if she loved him or not, they’d really cared about each other. That much was clear; that and the way she idolized him. She’d had a pretty little dream of the future as his bride and fellow warrior. It was all so sweet you had a hard time imagining it, but if anyone deserved something like that, it was Ingrid.

And it was all gone now. Ingrid hadn’t come to greet you at her house, either. You hadn’t even seen her. Just the solid oak door to her room, barred from the inside. House Galatea’s house was the nicest thing they had; the land wasn’t great, but that fortress of a home could defend itself, and had the wealth of better days poured into it. Ingrid’s room most of all, and so there was no way to get around that old door that greeted you in place of your old friend. Her father had been hoping that she’d come out for you — he hadn’t _ said _ so, but he’d been so relieved to see you, which was an entirely new experience for you, and now that made sense. How long had she been in there? Since she got the news? You looked about for a clue on that, and saw that, hey: at least there was an empty tray of plates there. That meant she was still eating, right?

“I’m so sorry,” you told Ingrid through the door. “It’s really awful, Ingrid.” 

You wish you’d known what to say. You’d wish you’d known what to do. She didn’t answer.

“C’mon, Ingrid, talk to me. Would Glenn really want you to just —” Your words were cut off by thud of something hitting the door with all the force Ingrid could muster. 

And then, the first sound of her voice. But whatever words she meant, whatever breaths she took, broke into the gasps and hiccups of haggard weeping. 

“...I’m sorry, that was probably a little much, huh? Maybe it’d help to take your mind off of things?” That’s what a plan looked like. A good one, even. “Yeah, why don’t you and I take a nice walk? Get some sun.”

“No, Sylvain,” she eventually answered. She sounded so tired. “I don’t want to go anywhere.” 

So, that was a dud. What were you supposed to do, then? Say ‘well, if you want to stay in your room forever, sure thing?’ You paused, took a deep breath, and just stared at the door like the woodgrain could tell you what was in her heart. It did have a little face, but it was sort of a wailing one that you covered with your hand when you touched the door. Hadn’t you once, back when you were like seven, egged on Felix to draw on this door, so Ingrid’s room would have a pretty door? And then Ingrid went to get Glenn, and Glenn told you to stop being idiots and ruining it? And then even Felix had turned on you. Because Glenn had been the real boss here.

And then it hit you that he was gone. Not the way it hit Ingrid, probably not the way it hit Dimitri, almost certainly not the way it hit Felix. But it did anyway, in a way you couldn’t feel before. Your forehead tapped the door itself, just once, as you dropped your head.

“Man. What are we going to do?” You’d meant to just think it. You really had.

“That’s what I want to know!” Ingrid shouted at you. She gasped, gulping down air. She was crying without dignity, with the full abandon of a child. “What am I supposed to do now? Glenn was everything.”

And then, so weakly it took the air out of your lungs, too: “How am I supposed to go on? Glenn…”

You’d wish you’d never come. You stayed there for a long time, not sure you could say anything. You just let her cry through that door. Pathetic, right?

Eventually, you had to go. And all you could tell her is “I’ll be back after the funeral.”

At first, she didn’t answer. You told her some extra goodbye you don’t recall, not when you heard that lurching little croak sneak its way out of the cracks in the doorframe.

“Glenn’s body won’t get to have a funeral.”

So, you’re pretty sure Ingrid isn’t coming. Which left only His Highness as a possible greeter. And that one did surprise you, and it didn’t. On the one hand, name a kid more conscientious than Faerghus’ thirteen-year old prince. Sure, don’t trust him to handle an instrument or a pair of scissors or anything delicate you expected him to grip and manipulate at the same time and not snap to bits, and whatever you do don’t trust him to deal with girls that aren’t everyone’s favorite tomboy (you remember, once again, his little girlfriend. What had her name been? El? Probably Ellen or something, but it didn’t matter; what mattered is, downcast mood or no, you remembered the dagger thing and snickered to yourself), but there’s no one more earnestly dedicated to being a stick in the mud. On the other hand, you couldn’t guess what happened to him. Rumors are everywhere. Duscur is on fire, just the whole peninsula. The soldiers’ hasty revenge and ‘peacekeeping’ had gradually become a deliberate subjugation that didn’t end, and it sent shivers of horror down your spine. And most people were glad for it. All from what happened that day; centuries of peace thrown out the window. You could definitely give Dimitri about five million passes for not feeling up to coming down to see you, was your point.

But once you’re settled in, you ask where he is, if you can see him, all that. You’re told he’s in his room. He hasn’t left it. He’d gotten severely injured, the maid explains — healing staves a little too late to do him real good, and he seemed like he might have gotten sick from wounds and stress. And so, until the funeral, he’s confined to his bed.

When you’re taken up to the hallway in front of his chambers, what greets you is a strange scene: there’s a guard there, which is new. Guards aren’t uncommon, but there’s usually not one just right outside his doors like that. And there’s a very tall, kind of beat-up man standing there, rigid as the guard but with a totally different expression. His mouth presses into a tense line; his eyes, one bearing a fresh bruise, give him away. Those eyes are sleepless with a nightmare you can’t name and don’t want to. You’ve seen eyes like those before; when your father’s soldiers marched back from their first battle, their first real, hard battle, some of them had eyes like this guy. Just scared and hungry and _ lost _. If you didn’t see that, you’d have gone on thinking this guy was way older than you. But he’s not; he’s younger.

That height that caught your eye? Sure, yeah, he’s gonna be a big guy, absolutely. Well, more than that,he _ is _ a big guy. But most of that’s just lanky, without having grown out into it or the breadth of his shoulders. His hands and joints are knobbly and outsized as a puppy’s paws, so he’s all elbows and knees and knuckles. And there’s not much mistaking where he’s from, either. His hair’s a moonlit silver-white, which had not helped your vibe that he was an adult, and the combination between that and his darker skin is so Duscur it might as well be waving a flag. So, you know what? He probably had lived a nightmare. You can’t even imagine.

But you’ve probably been staring too long, because he turns from your gaze, head down. His head turned away really shows off that shiner, more vibrant and angry than your own bruises. He’s got more scuffs than that, mixing ages and levels of treatment. But that’s the one that really draws your eye.

“I’ll see if His Highness can see a visitor,” says the guard with a bow. His eyes follow yours to the kid there. “Please keep an eye on him.”

“Sure thing,” you answer. Once he’s gone, it’s basically the two of you in that hallway, and friendly guy that you are, you try and strike up something. “That looks rough. So what brings you to this corner of the castle?”

His head jerks up from its own contemplation, and his jaw locks into place. Fixing for a fight, huh? No, not exactly. His hands are still open at his sides. Fixing to be fought, huh? You raise up a hand placatingly.

“Woah, I’m just making conversation! You speak Fodlani?”

“... I know some. They are ...close, sometimes..” His delivery’s sort of stiff and slow, but he must be right — he’s got a good, workmanlike Fodlani. While he stares at you seriously, his words faintly rumble with cold, slow hate, “I am ‘not to be trusted.’”

“That’s OK; I’d rather not worry about stuff like that,” you reply with a casual shrug. Judging by appearances just tells you who’d be nice to look at while they lie to you; most of those nice faces people show are hiding something rotten inside. You know that so reflexively that you kind of regret not just trusting him. “I’m Sylvain, a friend of Prince Dimitri.”

“I am Dedue. I wish...” His face is calm, but you notice the deep intake of breath as he tries to reach for what he wants to say. “To help Dimitri.”

“Help him? With what?”

“Everything I can,” the boy from Duscur answers, without a trace of doubt.

“Huh,” you say, because really, that sounds hard when there’s a guard posted just to stop him getting in the room. You are not even sure what he’s doing here, given the situation; someone must be vouching for him. Dimitri, maybe? But there’s bound to be a limit to what that can do when the prince is bedbound. Dedue’s shoulders sag, and you follow his gaze back towards the door.. It’s kind of depressing, really. So when the guard returns to say that His Highness will see you, you find yourself asking, “Hey, mind if he comes in with me?”

Everyone stares at you, until the guard considers the boy from Duscur for a long while, frowning.

“If Lord Sylvain is willing to keep an eye on him...I suppose that will be acceptable,” he relents. As you cross the border into The Princes’ quarters, Dedue bows.

“You have my thanks.” 

“It seems kind of unfair to leave you there. But His Highness better actually want to see you.”

His Highness is waiting in his bed, a few more doorways in, and you are not prepared for it. If someone told you he was dying, you’d believe them. He’s got bandages around his head, slathered across a hand and his arms, and one of those is in a splint. And this is after a healer’s worked with him, taken the edge off day by day. You would have thought his injuries would be the hardest thing to take seeing. But no. His eyes look hollow, his whole face looks hollowed out, a thin mask over nothing at all. If he’s slept in the week since this all started, you don’t see it; really, if you hadn’t personally seen him sleep plenty of times when you were kids, you would imagine he’s never fallen asleep in his life. His big blue eyes are red-touched from rim to iris. Feverish, haunted, his gaze shakes a little while he traces over the two of you. Then he lets out a relieved breath like he’d been holding it for a while. Dedue, more ready for the sight of him than you were, nearly bowls you over to reach his bed.

“Dedue,” Dimitri says, voice a little hoarse and incredibly relieved. “You’re actually still here. But your face...I’m. I’m so sorry.”

“You did no wrong, and it will heal.” Dedue’s shoulders soften with relief. “And you, Dimitri?”

“...I…” His face scrunches in something like a smile. It’s made of mist, dissolving in the moment that it’s formed. He shakes his head. “I...I’m sure I’ll…” His voice quavers on its way out.. 

Eventually, he lifts up his head and looks back at you, with an expression that’s another game attempt at looking like something. You are not sure what that something is, an apologetic frown or a gentle smile or both at once, but he sure is trying.

“Sylvain, though! I’m dreadfully sorry… I’m sorry…” For a moment, there’s no more sound even though his mouth moves, just a tremor to go with the prince’s distant stare, but he eventually shakes off the train of thought and refocuses back on you rather than on something miles and miles away. “I didn’t mean to forget you. Thank you for coming to see me.”

“Your Highness, it’s not a problem,” you shrug. “You’ve got a lot on your plate at the moment.” You should probably say what you came here to say, mostly, but Goddess. You can’t help but think it’s so fake sounding. ‘Sorry your father died in front of you’ ‘Sorry everyone died in front of you.’ ‘Sorry everyone’s dead.’ See? That’s how dumb that sounds. “I’m sorry for your loss, Dimitri. Anything I can do to help?”

But sometimes, dumb is all you have. Less often than you pretend, but, no, sometimes you really are just pretty dumb.

“There’s nothing anyone can do,” Dimitri says, his bandaged hand, the one on his good arm, gripping at his bedsheets so intently that you hear a subtle rip. His voice cracks, one part puberty and one part pure misery. “I should — _ I _should have been the one to do something.” 

“Dimitri! You’re alive, isn’t that doing enough? You managed to save your own skin, so at least someone walked out of that alive.” When you say that, just reaching for whatever popped into mind, his throat only makes a strange choking noise. Before you can touch him for whatever comfort that’d provide, he blinks off a fresh wave of tears.

“...That’s right,” he murmurs, looking thoughtful enough to take that comment seriously. Dimitri glances up at Dedue for a moment. Disentangling his fingers from the ripped covers, he looks down at his own hands and breathes shakily. “Dedue survived, too.”

“Yes. That is through you alone,” Dedue answers, warmly and gravely. So it’s something like that, huh? It does sort of sound like the most Dimitri reason to have met someone, you've got to say; he's pretty brave when the chips are down. Maybe it's why this is such a shock.

“There you go! Anyway, I just meant… To help you through this, Dimitri.” Now you pat him on the back, but he winces, so you withdraw your hand quickly. “Sorry about that. Got pretty beaten up, huh?”

“...I don’t mind,” Dimitri says quietly, his eyes flicking across the room. He leans back until his head touches the headboard. “Then...If it’s not too much trouble, Sylvain… Please, just? Stay here? Only for a while. Please. If...If you go, then Dedue will also have to...to go...And I’ll be alone. And then.. I won’t be—” he breaks off then, shaking his head to hide how much he’s trembling.You’re struck then by just how small Dimitri seems. You were shorter last time you saw him, and he’s not hit his growth spurt — the royal family’s a bunch of late bloomers, the king used to say (used to say, of course, but the reminder hits you and it’s weird) — but most of all… He just looks like a spindly glass sculpture of a person, so thin, so pale, so delicate that he might break apart at any moment. 

“Sure thing, Dimitri. Any time.” You pull up a couple of chairs to sit by the bed, so no one’s on ceremony for as long as he’d want you there.

An uneasy silence falls. Dimitri opens his mouth a few times, but can’t seem to manage. A million things crowd around his tongue, and his lips mouth the starts of something he can’t force the voice for. “I can’t think of what to say. I’m sorry. I’m —”

“I’m sorry. I… do not know what to say, either,” Dedue turns his face from the both of you to hide whatever expression could could make that tone, sinking slowly down as if to the bottom of the sea. Dimitri grabs his hand by means of comfort or apology, and you decide to put this whole socially awkward...situation… to its metaphorical bed.

“Don’t sweat it, you guys! Just let me handle the talking, and you can listen, Your Highness.” Subjects, subjects… None that include, um, anyone you actually care about — that is, your friends. That’s probably way too close to this. Or his old man. Or recent events. Or anything that involves talking about that time you kinda got strangled — remember that? You don’t want to, really, and for some reason that kind of stuff always upsets His Highness? So that leaves girls. Which is great, you love talking about a beautiful lady or some chaotic adventure in love as you’ve begun to collect them, except your audience is His Highness, who, need you remind yourself,  _ honestly thinks a dagger is a suitable romantic present for parting with a girl he likes. _ This would be a good time to remind him of that. 

“You don’t have much skill in romance, Your Highness, so I’ve got some educational stories with hard-won life lessons. Listen close, OK? If I’d given a dagger to these girls, I might have gotten stabbed! It’s no way for a prince on a white horse to treat a would-be princess.” So you think, but it doesn’t draw embarrassment from him. It just sinks there.

And you clear your throat and start some of the funnier stories of your misadventures.While you’re getting good at the adventure bit, some of them still end up with some mis-, particularly if, say, certain angry noblemen whose daughters you’ve been pursuing are involved. You’re hoping Dedue has something to say about girls at some point. Sure, he’s a little awkward, but he’s tall and he seems alright enough and, anyway, in a couple of years he’ll probably be so big he could fit a girl on each shoulder and that’s got to have an appeal (you have long suggested that, should His Highness want to pick up girls, he should try showing off how easy it is to physically pick up and carry several girls. Girls love strong guys. And it’s probably better than any of His Highness’ flirting game, which is so precious and pure and awkward. Good thing he has you). He does not have anything to add about girls — except, of course, for the far-away look in his eyes. You wonder what are the odds that he lost a girl he liked, or almost liked, or could have liked? Or just... all the girls he knew, for that matter, if he ended up  _ here _ of all places. What a mess. 

You like to stay away from feeling like this, but waiting for that interjection that never comes, it just gnaws at you over whatever story about how much of a pain Lord Gwendal is that you happen to be telling. You don’t even get to the resolution because, oh, hey, Ingrid’s in that part, and you feel like if you summon the idea of her, the girl crying behind her bedroom door, the present would come slamming back into reality. Lucky you, your load’s light enough to run from it. That’s all you can do sometimes, right? Even if it feels like you should do more. Man, is this doing anything for anyone? How would you  _ even know _ ? You’re not even sure His Highness is paying attention; his eyes aren’t really meeting anyone’s, and he eventually just sighs and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling, its carved canopy of pine branches and curling ferns looming overhead. He’s not listening as much as he is just letting the sound wash over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, even knowing that Dedue used to call Dimitri by name did not prevent it feeling a bit like a wordcrime the first time I wrote it.


	3. A Foot Out the Door

You’ve been talking about your latest exploits and your carefully crafted opinions on various palace girls for a while now. If it’s helped, you really can’t tell; His Highness still looks like he’s barely there. As one recounting comes to an end, you clap your hands together and get up. Like he’d been tied to you with a string, His Highness is pulled to sitting upright. Even that little movement has him grimacing in fresh pain.

“Please don’t. Please. I’m sorry for forcing you to —”

“Calm down. I just thought I’d ask if they can bring up some food. I don’t know about you guys, but I was on the road all morning, and I’m starving.” You’re grinning, but it’s one of your fake grins. A good one; you don’t want to have a bad fake grin for His Highness in his hour of need.”How about you, Your Highness?”

“...I’m fine. I’m not hungry,” His Highness answers slowly. “Dedue, would you like anything? Anything at all.”

“Yes, thank you.” Dedue eyes Dimitri seriously as those hard white brows knit close together. “Dimitri. Did you...truly finish your breakfast? Have you truly eaten?” 

Dimitri doesn’t answer, and it’s a big, unspoken cloud hanging in the air. Desperation’s running pretty thick through Dedue while he stares wide-eyed at His Highness, like he  _ needs _ to fix this and he’s as clueless as you are as to how to do it. It’s hit you before that this big guy was a kid, from your lofty perspective of almost 16 years, but here it is again: this is just a kid. And Mr. Serious, His Highness, Dimitri? He looks so much like a lost child that it’s practically punching you. And both of them are dealing with something way more mature, more serious, than you ever could. But you’re somehow both the most and least an adult in the room. _ Why. _

“Well, why don’t we just get extra, so we can share if His Highness gets hungry?” you offer diplomatically. That gets Dimitri’s nod, so you poke your head out. The guard looks nervous. “You’re worrying for nothing. But hey, can you maybe ask the kitchens to bring a couple of plates of something up for us? Something Prince Dimitri likes, and a lot of it.” 

“Of course! We’ve been hoping he’d get hungry.” The guard snapped to attention before hurrying down the hall in search of someone to pass this off to. 

You come back in and the three of you wait. 

“I wasn’t really specific. That a problem?” you ask them both. When Dimitri shakes his head, his next breath is taken hard through his teeth.

“I am not… do not care about such things.” Dedue’s brow wrinkles as he tries to pick his way to what he means.

"Not picky?” you suggest.

“Is that how you say that in Fodlan? Yes, I am not picky, then.” He nods softly.

“You must have favorites, though, don’t you?” Dimitri pipes up. Not trying to move much anymore, he leans back up against his headboard and the collection of pillows gathered there.

“...I do. I enjoy very spiced foods particularly. But I will eat most things. And cook most things.”

“You can cook? Nice! As for me, I’m also a guy who likes everything spicy.” You wiggle your eyebrows suggestively. His Highness looks at you with a particular brand of confused disappointment that means he has no idea what you’re implying, only that he knows it’s a you thing. You’re so glad to see a normal look like that on his face that you could just make innuendos that would fly the low, low height over his head all afternoon. “But any meal you eat with a pretty girl’s a good meal.” 

“And you, Dimitri?” Wow, they’re just breezing right past that. Way to include a guy.

“...It doesn’t really matter.” Dimitri mutters, and now you’re back to worrying. It’s not like he’s so particular he’d ever try and insist on his own tastes, but you don’t get it. You know what he likes.

“He likes warming things. Maybe melted cheese? Yeah, that sort of thing. We used to call him a little mouse when he was little; you know, your Highness, it still fits!” Even Felix has grown past him somewhat, so he was officially the short one for the time being.

“Sylvain!” Dimitri’s voice cracks over the cry. There you go. Took him long enough to pay attention. You can’t help but chuckle at your poor, easily embarrassed prince sounding more like himself.

“Sorry, sorry, Your Highness.” But that gets him at least lively enough to occasionally respond to something about food while you wait. And if he sometimes pulls a strange look or goes quiet and spent, you just dance around the topic until there’s a knock on the door.

The lunch’s quite a few little croquettes, two small bowls of soup, and slices of apple cooked in syrup. And a pot of tea. Not a bad spread, really. You have to break out Dimitri’s personal tea set from his sitting room, because someone ‘forgot’ there were three people there and only gave you two cups.

At first, His Highness doesn’t take the bait. Not even when you point out that the croquettes have a warm filling of melted cheese and meat with juices that had spread into the potato-y outer layer. But eventually, his stomach growls loudly enough for the whole room to hear it.

“Dimitri —” “Dimitri —”

“I think... I might need to eat something, after all,” he interrupts you both before you can insist. “May I?” 

When Dedue offers him basically his entire tray, Dimitri manages a wan smile to shake it off with. “Not so much. Besides, you need something, too.”

He eyes the silverware before deciding that it’s not going to work out with only one mostly-good hand, and so he just grabs a croquette. They’re pretty good finger-foods anyway, if anyone asks you. The first few bites are slow ones, ones where Dedue’s eyes are on him like a high-strung watchdog’s. Then something switches on inside Dimitri and he finishes it like an animal, taking big, hurried bites that he can’t  _ possibly _ be chewing that fast, leaving bits of cheese and potato on his face.

“Dimitri. You must eat more slowly. You’ll only make yourself sick again if you cannot.” Dedue’s voice broke through His Highness’ feeding frenzy, interrupting the grab for the next croquette. Dimitri made a point of swallowing his mouthful before sighing.

“..You’re right. I’m sorry...For the display, I mean. I...don’t think I realized how hungry I was.” That’s when he reaches for the next one and takes a more reasonable bite, chews before swallowing, swallows before speaking again. “Are you trying to be my nursemaid now, Dedue?”

“...If it will allow me to stay here, then yes. I would like that,” Dedue answers with a real thoughtfulness. This gives His Highness a second’s pause, too, where they look at each other. The prince makes a pondering noise in his throat.

“...Thank you,” he says, and for what you can’t quite say, so you’re not going to touch it. You’re just going to have your soup. Makes the meal a little boring, but hey. You’ll live. Your eyes, thinking that, fall on His Highness again. You have something to ask, but you thought it better to ask when no one was eating. For all that energy put into it — energy spent that sends Dimitri back to leaning heavily against his pillow stack — Dimitri doesn’t eat much: just those two little croquettes and maybe half an apple, but he does look a little better for doing it.

“Hey, Your Highness… Have you been sick to your stomach lately? Because I could have asked for something a little lighter. I feel kind of bad.”

“Oh... “ Dimitri’s eyes shut for a second. “No, please don’t worry. It’s...Just hard. Right now.” With a wary and uncertain tone, he tries to find how to explain. “I just can’t seem to swallow food normally. I can’t choke it down. I just…Keep thinking about it. I just keep imagining it.” His voice shakes, breaking down to pain-laced fragments. 

“I can still smell it. The ash and the soot and they’re still — they’re still burning —” He gags on nothing this time, hand over mouth, but he shakes his head when you try and grab him.

“Your Highness! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to think about stuff that upsets you.” You’d thought you’d done a good enough job just by not asking him when there was food in his mouth. You’d thought you were very clever, noticing the potential trap there. You just had to ask, didn’t you? He swallows thickly, a shudder racing through him. The hand that was covering his mouth clenches, more scratching at his face than holding it. The grip flails and tightens around a series of grunts. He shuts his eyes tight, as each little sound feels like he’s pushing something back, step by painful step. Dedue, next to you, has his eyes tightly shut; he refocuses. His hand reaches out to hold onto Dimitri’s shoulder. 

“It’s fine. I’ll be...Fine. It’s down now.” But he accepts the tea Dedue lets go of him to offer anyway, letting his trembling hand be half-supported by a larger one. Dimitri sputters, but that goes down, too. And when he’s done, he goes limp against his pillows, exhaustion creeping like a shadow back into that moon-pale face. “I should not have said so much. I’m sorry.”

This, delivered to the air, could be for anyone, about anything. When his breathing steadies, his eyes close slowly as a cat’s. So you stand up.

“No, I’m sorry. But you look pretty beat, Your Highness. I bet I’ll get yelled at if I don’t let you get some rest.”   
  
He almost tries to reach out to grab you back, but his free arm only moves a little, slowly, like it’s made of lead.

“Wait. Please. Both of you. A little longer. Sit with me a little longer.” He pleads so intently that his whole body’s shaking. “Just until — just until I fall asleep.”

“Of course,” replies Dedue, who true to his word looks like he might just have been planted like an oak into his chair beside the prince’s bed; he might just live there now. “...If that is fine.”

You sit back down and shrug, allowing Dimitri to sigh in relief.

“I certainly won’t say no. But you better actually get some — you look like a wreck. No offense, Dimitri.” In response, Dimitri lets out just a little noise that’s probably not denial. “Well, I’m pretty good for running my mouth, if nothing else.”

“You’re able to be...good for plenty, you know,” he mutters drowsily.

“Yeah, but why should I?” You chuckle and give him a wink.. “I’m good for the ladies, though, so that’s a second thing.”

You rattle into some more stories. You end up telling them both — more to Dedue, because he’s the one who makes attentive noises while you talked (you suspected more to just keep the conversation alive than out of interest — he’s not really looking at you, mostly) and has less context, and so requires more talking to lay it out for — about a festival the town near your home had held last Harpstring Moon. They’d had a pretty entertaining bear act, but then the bear’d gotten loose, and you’d thought it would impress the girl in that troupe if you went and retrieved it, and that was why you still had a scar on your chest. It’d heal, but hey. Chicks would dig a good scar while it lasted. You got the bear back, though. No one ever gives you credit for that. Maybe because you fell into an unconscious heap the moment the bear went in his pen. (Did you still get kisses? Yes, but not the ones you wanted. Not bear-collecting valor reward kisses. Or something like that.)

And as the you of the story dodges and fails to dodge a confused dancing bear, His Highness’ eyes drop lower and lower, his responses less distinct, until all the movement left is the rise and fall of his chest, and the lightest flutter of his eyelashes. There's one last, worried mutter,  just a faint little murmur on the edge of being a word, a stirring of the air. And then, quiet. The story ends immediately, and you take a breath in the silence the sleeping prince leaves around him.

“Poor guy… He’s got it so rough.” you whisper. A worry wakes up from where you’d put it to bed to gnaw at you, looking at that hollow, drained face, its eyes surrounded by shadows, dark bags and red rims, its skin colorless; a face that feels caught here, in the moment of crumbling away to nothing. And totally lost to sleep. So helpless and so frail and so — so like he isn’t, wasn’t, all the way here, the Dimitri you know. Like he has a foot out the door. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. The thought doesn’t keep; its real form moves its way out into the open air. “He’s not in any danger...So he’ll make it, right?”

And Dedue looks at you-- stares like you just hit his heart, his whole face collapsing like a landslide into open-mouthed dismay.

“He must.” It’s not a statement of fact or even so much a hope — it’s a plea, it’s a prayer. He whispers to himself, would have whispered even if you weren’t trying to avoid noise, “He has to.”

“He will.” With a heart full of regret, you decide to bluff a confidence in that you just don’t have. It’s pretty natural, and you fold smiling reassuringly in with picking up the now empty trays and plates. He doesn’t move, so you keep saying, “His Highness is tough, and he’s pretty brave. too. I just got spooked for a second.”

“He is the bravest person I have ever met.” Dedue’s eyes fall onto Dimitri’s sleeping face. He marshalls his expression back into order, into a hard resolve. “But that is why he needs to survive.” 

“He will, he will. Count on it...Well, I guess I should probably get going.” You aren’t going to boot the guy out — the odds of him doing something bad are, you decided, approximately as likely as Miklan giving you a hug that you would enjoy. Of course, it’s not your choice. The guard walks in the moment you’re out the door.

“Get out,” he whispers, his voice dark. The guard puts his hand onto Dedue’s shoulder to manhandle him out, but Dedue doesn’t resist. “His Highness clearly can’t see any more guests. And we can’t run the risk of more regicide from your kind.”

That’s harsh. But what are you supposed to do, anyway? The best that jumps to mind is to at least do the most annoying thing you can think of.

“Shhhh,” you scold the guard in a hissed whisper. You try to carry the sort of ferocity Ingrid gets for that, but you’re pretty sure your delivery just doesn’t have it. You don’t do stern; sorry, big guy. But they both file out without things getting any harder. You put the dishes down to be someone else’s problem, and watch Dedue sink against the panelled wall between him and Dimitr’s chambers. He doesn’t look at the guard, and he doesn’t look at you. He buries his head in his hands and just... waits. He’s got nothing else to do.

“Good luck,” you mutter as you go, sincere as you can be. You hope it’ll all work out for him somehow. It’s not like you have any say in it, but hey.


	4. Like a Bad Joke

The Fraldarius family, what bits of it remain, come in the next day. You were planning on catching Felix on his way in, but by the time you get down when you see the carriage roll in from the window, it’s just his father, aged about 10 years since last month, overseeing getting their luggage moved. He sighs before speaking to you — not with exasperation, which is refreshing but probably not deserved. If you had to describe it, you’d call it maybe… Like he’s getting ready, getting his face and voice and dignity all in order.

“I’m sorry, Sylvain. You just missed him.” He sounds like a bad imitation of himself, really. His normally level, thoughtful voice something of a husk, his attempt at a smile of greeting just a bizarre, flat tugging at his mouth.

“Off to see His Highness?” It’s where you’d peg Felix as going. You were the third guy — second guy? Ooh, that change stung — down everyone’s ladder. Which honestly wasn’t bad; it felt more secure, safer, less puffed-up. 

“...His Highness,” repeats the Duke, his voice small and thoughtful. You’d have thought he’d be bitter — you’d have been bitter — but he wasn’t, not at all. If anything, it relieved him. “Is Prince Dimitri well?”

“Pretty obviously not, Sir,” you answer bluntly. “He’s going to make it, and maybe he’ll even be up for the funeral,” A day in which nothing seems to have gotten any worse is enough to convince you, as is the reminder he’s gotten on for a week. So that moment of terrible dread hasn’t come back, and if it never does, for anyone in your life, you’d like that. But a bit of you’s ready for it now. “But I wouldn’t call him ‘well’ by a long shot.”

“But still…” he murmurs, gesturing with a hand in some mild way at a trunk being brought down; his eyes follow it languidly, half-focused. His mouth works at something and resolves itself, without letting on a clue as what he wants to feel. You see the afternoon sun on his eyes reflect brighter amid the veil of mist that filled them. 

“I’m sorry about Glenn,” you offer; you don’t think you could leave without saying that. Honestly, it’s weird seeing that much feeling out of a real adult. You can’t imagine your old man crying, just by standing there, just by thinking about it. He’d miss your crest if you kicked it, of course, but that’s not the sort of loss someone cries about. You know that. It’s like a bad joke, right? The father who wouldn’t cry doesn’t have to. And the father that would is standing there, taking a big, deep breath before the palace, trying very hard to do something as dumb as making sure luggage is handled correctly without crying.

“My son’s life wasn’t worthless...He died with honor, and for a purpose. There must be some consolation in that.” Really? Is there? Well, maybe if you were closer to it, you’d grab whatever consolation you could get. Maybe you’d just give up. Maybe you’d just shrug and say that’s how it is. But you don’t have to make that choice, so you’re not going to judge. Your friends’ dad smiles, full of rue and pain. A limp strand of dark blue hair falls into his face, and then you can’t say if he’s crying or not. He shakes his head, leaving things a little worse than before. “You asked about Felix. While I don’t doubt he’ll try and see His Highness soon, as I should…He headed toward the fountain, I believe. I think he wanted to escape. ”

“Escape?” 

“...He needs some.. space from me right now.” His face goes mask-like again, mustering that dignity once more. “Sylvain… Please. Try to help him find the comfort I cannot. You’re his friend, you’d understand him better.”

“I can’t really say I know if I’d get it...” You sigh. That’s the thing, isn’t it? But you can’t turn away now, even if you don’t get it, and if you say it like that, you probably sound like a jerk. “But I’ll always have Felix’s back, so you at least don’t need to worry about that, Sir.”

As you turn to go, he watches you, so you end up looking back over your shoulder. Another sigh weighs on his shoulders, rattles around the courtyard like the chill spring wind. Maybe he envies your family — sure, one son’s a jerk everyone wants to forget about. And then there’s you, and all the things you thought about fathers probably applies to little brothers, too. But you’re both still here. That probably counts for something to a guy like him.

‘The Fountain’ is in a side garden — you think you once heard the king say it’d belonged to the queen, way back when. And so he had kept pretty and neat, allowing you to walk up between beds where flowers formed an elaborate pattern of Xs and circles. In the center is the fountain, where a fish spits water into the air, filling the garden with its sound. It’s not until you’re close that you hear something else under its babbling — a low, hitching noise, wet as the water, but rolling in and out around gasps and hisses. The sound of Felix sobbing, sobbing, sobbing. His figure’s a hunched ball at the base of the fountain, all wrapped up in a fluffy cloak. You have no idea how to intrude on this moment; Felix normally comes running to you, so you’ve never had to think about this. 

“Hey, Felix!” That was probably too light. This is probably a bad time. He looks up, revealing a face blotchy from crying, dark eyes fierce and red-rimmed. But even if you totally screwed up by sauntering up with a wave, he still comes to hurl himself at you. You stagger back when you take his weight, held up by his arms wrapped around you while he sobs into your chest.

“Sylvain... Sylvain!” He says, unable to struggle out anything more than that. You put your arms around him, let him grab at you. Having a crying Felix clinging to you is familiar enough that now, when it’s really serious and not a loss that he’ll bounce back from in a day, or a fight that’ll blow over in an hour, it feels weird. Besides, he’s been embarrassed about that kind of thing lately, since his last birthday. He’s been tired of you teasing him, which means you will never stop. But he’s been wanting to stand prouder, taller, be more cool and independent. In other words, wanting to be...Well… More like…

Well.

“Hey, hey… It’s gonna be ok,” you say, despite all evidence to the contrary. He cries like chunks have been torn out of him, the sound of his tears drowning out even the fountain now. 

“No, it’s not! It’s not fine, not — not ever again.” Your shirt absorbs most of his words, his failures at words where things broke through, his little hiccups and heaving breaths. It hurts, and you’re not sure what to do but rub little circles into his back. But c’mon. He needs you. You need to have it together for once.

“I know you miss him. We all will; even I miss him,” you try to sound consoling. You’re probably too honest there. You aren’t expecting it to hit home, not expecting it to rattle around in your chest, sending your voice shaking on its way out. It’s kind of silly, in comparison. You know that. So you try and think of a way past it “But, you know, at least —”

“Shut up.” You feel him let go; it’s a sudden cold space that hits your back.

“Huh?” ‘At least life’ll go on, so you’ll see.’ or something kinda sappy like that, dies on your tongue. Maybe it’s better you don’t get to say it, you don’t know.

“You — you heard me, Sylvain! Shut up!” he shouts frantically, looking up at you with a look you’ve never seen on him. Some of it’s angry — some of it’s suspicious, betrayed by something in you. Or in him, scrunching up his nose with disgust. But mostly, like something’s crumbling. Something’s burning. And surrounded by those pieces, he’s alone. Or maybe that’s you. And maybe he’s just one of those pieces, and you thought you could do something.

“I don’t know what I said to bug you, Felix, but could you maybe give me a hint?”

“Why don’t any of you idiots understand it?! He’s dead, he’s dead! There’s nothing else about it!” He scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms, trying to wipe away any sign he’d done this. He steps back. When he doesn’t hit the barrier of your arms, he snarls, “I don’t — I don’t need this. That’s right. I don’t need any of their ‘comfort’.”

“...Whose comfort?” you ask. You know, like someone who isn’t keeping up with this conversation at all.

“My father’s! Everyone!” he growls, his dark blue hair flying around him as he shakes his head. He clutches at his heart and his eyes lock with yours again. “I don’t need any of it! ...So stay away until you make sense!”

You let him go. You didn’t imagine that he’d ever tell you something like that, and you just don’t know what to do any better than anything else. If he just wants to call you a dolt or an idiot, that’s normal. And OK. But this isn’t like that. The gravel walkway crunching under his feet, Felix backs up a step or two more, staring at you like he’s challenging you for something.

“...Okay, I’ll back off for a bit,” you tell him. You don’t know if you won or lost his dare — but the venom drops out, just a little, being replaced by the crunched-up eyes and crinkled chin of a child about to bawl. Your gut clenches as he turns to run. “Felix! Hey, Felix! If you want to talk, or whatever, you know where to find me, right?!” You call to his retreating back. You don’t know if he heard you. 

He doesn’t come to find you. Good-for-nothing that you are, in the end, you settle for the company of one of the maids who’d been staring at you since you arrived, hungry for attention and reflected glory… And probably some other things, but really? You’re just not into it. You even end up apologizing when you turn her down for dinner; she’s a great beauty, but the mood’s not right. You’re thinking way too much. It’s dumb that this hurts. Another time, maybe.

You’re already hearing rumblings of discontent around, and that’s a moodkiller, too. Rufus, the old king’s brother, is regent. And the center of the gossip mill. They say he’s been to see His Highness less than you (To save his strength for tomorrow, so says the physician, you don’t get to see him today. Does Felix? Does anyone?). They say his first acts in charge of the palace were to ‘inspect’ the finest wines in the cellar and to work off his grief in his guest chambers with two or three of his closest ladyfriends. He did a really great job, honestly. You don’t see any grief in him at all when you pay your respects. (You appreciate the irony. Of course you do. But you also appreciate the difference in results, if not your methods.)

The day after that is the funeral. You hate stuffy ceremonies like this. But Dimitri’s managed to get out of bed, so you better come. All the bandages but the splint for his arm and its accompanying sling are gone. He travels in an open carriage pulled by black horses, forming the head of the long black ribbon that winds its way through the city to where the royal tombs are kept. You’re well behind him, of course. You think you see in his shoulders the unsteady jerks of silent crying, but you can’t see his face.

Dimitri’s tears never reach anyone — not anyone who’s allowed near him, anyway. After the rites are done, he walks on shaking legs up to the stone figure now covering his father’s now-sealed tomb. Does that statue really look like the king? You don’t really think the stony, scowling face of the dead ruler in repose looks at all like Dimitri’s dad. But how could it? All the same, His Highness places down a wreath of flowers. He stands at the tomb impossibly alone, his eyes dried up. Ingrid’s all alone behind her oak door. Felix even  _ wants _ to be alone, now. 

And there you are, somehow whole, somehow untouched, somehow unfathomably lucky. You remember Miklan’s words and wish you’d done anything  _ right _ to earn the life you still had, instead of just stumbling into survival. You wished you could do anything to earn it.To pick them up and make them feel it’ll all be OK, and then you’d deserve to be safe and happy and unsoured, then you’d deserve the praise you get on the man you’re becoming, then — then you’d deserve something.

But life’s not fair. And there’s nothing you can do about it.


End file.
